


The Quiet Side of the Evening

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Rammstein Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 02:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19416517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Post-concert, Till has the choice to either stay with Paul in his hotel room, or join the others for a late dinner. He makes the right decision.





	The Quiet Side of the Evening

The stench of beer is strong in his breath. It's a little repulsive, but familiar. He always drank after concerts. To be fair, so did Paul. Now, they stand on the balcony connected to Paul's hotel room.  
  
"How many Rammstein shirts can you count?" Paul asks, leaning his hip against the railing, a half empty pint of beer in his hand, warm gray eyes sweeping across the expanse of the plaza underneath them. Beside him, Till is silent. A moment passes; Paul glances over. Till is rubbing his lips together, gaze downcast, sweeping back and forth.  
  
"Seventeen," he produces in a deep rumble.  
  
"So, we've seen more cranes at this point," Paul concludes, smiling to himself as he brings the rim of his glass to his lips. He takes a drink while Till laughs; the smell of beer reaches Paul's senses again.  
  
"Well, if you mean how many have we seen in total? Then that number would be gargantuan."  
  
Paul nods twice, turning back towards the little table pushed into the corner of the balcony to deposit his beer atop it. Turning back to Till, he slides his hands into the pockets of his drop crotch joggers and purposefully leans against Till's side. Till peeks at him from the corner of his eye before downing the remainder of his beer. Butterflies brew in Paul's stomach when a big hand slips inside his pants pocket to join his own. Till threads their fingers together.  
  
"What are we doing for dinner?" Till asks lowly, rubbing his thumb against the cool glass in his other hand. Paul hums lowly, contemplatively. He turns his head to Till, rests his lips against his shoulder through his black shirt. He tests the waters by squeezing his slim fingers around Till's.  
  
"The others were talking about going to this late night Greek restaurant... But I'm feeling more like Asian."  
  
"Mm."  
  
"I guess the question is whether you'd like to be in their company..."  
  
"Or yours," Till finishes for him with amusement subtle in his tone, panning his cool green eyes over to the younger man. Paul lifts his head from his shoulder and innocently hums as he looks away.  
  
"I think I'd like to melt into the bed and lazily insert sushi into my mouth," he sighs, craning his head back—the wind rushes through his red hair, the thin locks flying. "And it wouldn't hurt if you were there..."  
  
He peeks over at the other man. Till gazes at him with subtle fondness, silently finding his disheveled hair cute. Till nods and leans over to kiss the side of his head, nose in his ruby locks. He pulls back to see Paul beaming with warmth in his eyes.  
  
  
They end up seated at the table within the hotel room, positioned by the massive window, the drapes pulled back to reveal the expansive view of the city. Paul is currently talking around a mouthful of sushi while Till lazily stirs his noodles, big hand gripping the bowl. They decided upon something less extravagant tonight.  
  
“Schneider didn’t really think that downing four shots of Jäger and then jumping in the pool was a good idea,” he says thickly around the food, gesturing with his chopsticks, “But it’s not like I was implying to do one after the other. I didn’t mean down four shots back to back, and then go cannonball. I was simply _suggesting_ we drink and _then_ go invade the pool. It was like one in the morning, it’s not like anyone would be there.”  
  
“Why didn’t you?” Till asks before shoveling a great wad of noodles into his mouth. Paul shrugs. He pokes at his wasabi. He swallows down the mouthful, finally, before he continues with a smirk, “Well, I did! Not by myself, though. I dragged Ollie along with me.”  
  
“Poor man.”  
  
“I’ll have you know he volunteered!”  
  
“After some pestering, no doubt.”  
  
Paul looks offended. He points at Till with his chopsticks as he remarks, “He insisted I join him in the sauna afterwards! We coerced each other!”  
  
Till makes a face.  
  
“You went into the sauna after drinking Jäger?”  
  
Paul grins.  
  
“What if I told you we drank it _while_ in the sauna?”  
  
Till laughs aloud.  
  
“Next, you’ll tell me you vomited into the hot coals!”  
  
“No, no, no,” Paul begins, shaking both his head and his chopsticks, “That was until after we got back to his hotel room. It’s funny, actually. I was teasing him while he was in the middle of vomiting, but you know me, I sympathy vomit, so I ended up puking along with him in the same toilet. You think I’d learn to stop drinking like that at this age, but no. My body may resist, but I shall persist!”  
  
Till bursts out laughing again. Giggling, he sags forward over the table, elbow propped against the surface with his forehead pressed to his wrist. Paul grins before popping another sushi in his mouth. Till lifts his head, flips his red hair out of his eyes, and says with breathless amusement, “That’s disgusting.”  
  
“What!?” Paul shoots back thickly around the food in his mouth, “Would you rather I had puked into the sink and had them deal with the plumbing bill?”

  
Soon, the food is consumed, the beer is finished, Paul brushes his teeth, and the TV is turned on low. The night sky and its glimmering stars peer in at the pair through the wide window of the hotel room.  
  
They lay sprawled atop Paul’s hotel bed—Till’s outstretched arms reach from one end to the other, easily. Paul ends up laying his head against his bicep, one arm awkwardly lain across Till’s chest. Till continuously, repulsively burps—he mumbles something about the spicy noodles. Every time he does, Paul punishes him with a weak smack of his arm against his chest.  
  
After the fifth one, Paul laughs and cries, “Till! That is so unattractive. It makes me want to kiss you less and less!”  
  
Till chuckles and remarks, “As if you’d ever lose that desire.”  
  
“Maybe if you drank Jäger and then threw it back up, I would…”  
  
“Then you would kiss me elsewhere.”  
  
“Hey, let’s keep it family friendly here.”  
  
“I meant, perhaps, my cheek. You’re the pervert, with your naughty thoughts. How presumptuous of you.”  
  
Paul laughs sharply and weakly smacks him on the chest, eyes remaining trained on the ceiling, a grin on his face.  
  
“That’s bullshit! You’re the dirty one, and we both know it!”  
  
Surprising Paul, Till brings his hand up to gently take his. That has Paul turning his head, peeking over to see those large fingers curling gingerly through his own, threading together so easily. Till brings his hand to his face, if only to press three gentle kisses to the back of it. Paul grins, eyes warming.  
  
“See… You’re dirty.”  
  
Till hums and then Paul feels the whisper of a tongue along the crevice of his thumb and forefinger. A shiver goes down Paul’s spine to the base of his toes. He turns his body to face Till. Curling up against his side, Paul presses to the larger man and hides his face in his shoulder. He slowly twists his fingers, tangling them in Till’s. He can feel callouses on Till’s hand. The smooth skin of burn scars. Till curls his arm comfortably along the slope of his back, hand somehow finding its way to Paul’s ass. He doesn’t grab him, he just rests his hand there, so naturally. Paul wonders what Till is thinking.  
  
He feels small, curled up against Till’s broad side like this—but is that such a bad thing? Till is a steadfast comfort, he always has been. Even back in the ‘80’s, Till had been the level-headed, teddy bear of a man who was irresistible in so many ways. Paul had found his proximity irresistible, from then and even to this day. He radiates warmth. Both in the physical sense, and the atmospheric sense. Paul subconsciously clings to that, and it shows even now.  
  
Gazing at his profile—his lazily lidded eyes, his lips in that tiny pursed smile, his scarred cheeks, his broad nose, his red locks which fall across his forehead—Paul conjures an image of a younger Till. A more slender face. Features that were softer, more boyish. The innocence in his eyes, an innocence Till himself could never see. Somewhere, deep in his core, there is always the boy that wants to come out. Paul treasures the moments he can evoke it from Till, even now.  
  
“Do you ever have songs designated to certain people?” he asks, randomly, quietly—an abrupt question that had popped into his head. Till hums. He continues languidly twisting his fingers through Paul’s. Paul goes on, softer.  
  
“A song that is undeniably theirs. Whenever and wherever you hear it, it makes you think of them, and only them.”  
  
Till nods. He peeks over at Paul.  
  
“Do you have one for me?”  
  
Paul laughs quietly.  
  
"You know it, Till.”  
  
A moment of silence, contemplation. It takes a moment. Till recalls the memory, staring up at the ceiling now.  
  
“Ah, right. I should have known.”  
  
“I’m surprised it took you that long.”  
  
“It was _nineteen years ago_. Forgive me if my memory of us screwing to Sting has faded. Not my proudest fuck.”  
  
Paul smiles into Till’s shoulder. He slides his fingers from Till’s. He then turns onto his belly, propped up on his elbows. Till looks up at him coolly. Bringing his fingers to his own chin, Paul scratches at his beard absentmindedly, puckering his lips with hints of a smile tugging at the corners. He gazes at the other man fondly as he asks, “Do you have one for me? I can’t recall if I asked you that before.”  
  
“Now who’s the forgetful one?”  
  
Paul grins and smacks the back of his hand against Till’s chest, before continuing to fidget with his facial hair. Till smiles. He strokes his hand up over Paul’s back as he muses lowly, a guttural rumble, “Give me some time to think about it.”  
  
“Hey, you can’t just produce one right now, that’s not the same,” Paul protests. Till shrugs.  
  
“I never thought about it before. There are some Rammstein songs that make me think of you, if that counts.”  
  
“Sure it does,” Paul says with a pleased smile. He reaches out to begin idly playing with Till’s earrings as he encourages, “Which ones?”  
  
Till watches him with a kind look in his eyes, the most loving of his smiles gracing his lips. He glances across Paul’s face: his lines of age, his graying beard, his crow’s feet, eyebags derived from their touring, the tenderness in the gray of his irises. Till speaks quietly.  
  
“Rosenrot. Asche Zu Asche. Diamant. At times, Eifersucht.“  
  
Paul seems greatly amused by this. He continues toying with Till’s earrings, fingers stroking along the sleek steel, as he murmurs, “Diamant. Sure. You’re just saying that, you big romantic.”  
  
“When I recall some of the lyrics, yes, it does make me think of you. And I suppose from now on it always will, following this conversation.”  
  
A pause. Before Paul speaks, Till continues, quieter now.  
  
“Rosenrot is the most prevalent. I made subconscious connections.”  
  
“How?” Paul asks in an equally soft tone, his fingertips pausing on Till’s earlobe. Till averts his gaze elsewhere.  
  
“At times, I felt you made demands I couldn’t meet. Expectations I couldn’t satisfy.”  
  
“Ah. Right,” Paul says. They’ve gone over this ages ago, when it still had relevancy. Paul seems to want to change the subject, considering he leans in over Till to kiss his forehead. Till is fine with that. He tightens his arm around Paul’s slim waist, and immediately takes notice of his figure.  
  
“You’re too skinny,” he mumbles, while Paul continues kissing along the side of his face. Till glances down to sweep his gaze across Paul’s slender, albeit muscular, arm. He reaches up to gently grab his bicep, closing his fingers around it easily. Paul doesn’t say anything, he only focuses on pressing his lips to Till’s jaw, his chin. Till speaks again, “I’m not sure if you’re aware, Paul, but you can be buff without being as skinny as Fla—”  
  
Paul decides to interrupt him. He kisses him, forcefully yet fondly pushing his lips to Till’s. Till pauses, and then chuckles. He strokes his calloused hand down over Paul’s tattooed bicep, fingers gingerly caressing along warm skin. Paul shifts closer, adjusting his position, and begins pursing his mouth against Till’s. Till returns it easily, willingly, eyes closing.  
The differing tastes of beer—Till—and toothpaste—Paul—transfer from mouth to mouth. Their lips overlap together, a back and forth caress that had been dearly missed, unknowingly so. The sound of their kiss fills the room, combined with the quiet murmur of the TV and the humming of the AC.  
  
The warmth that surrounds them both is soothing. Till is at peace. Paul is brimming with happiness. He wiggles closer to the other man, holds his cheek lovingly with one slim hand. Till continues stroking his hand over Paul’s bicep as their kiss becomes lengthy. Only when Paul is satisfied does he break away to kiss twice more over Till’s cheek. Then he withdraws to search in lidded green eyes, a smile on his face.  
  
“Hey, maybe you can swap with Richard for the next show,” Paul jokes, a bit breathless. Till pauses, furrowing his brow. Once it registers, he scoffs a laugh and rolls his eyes.  
  
“You want to teach me how to play guitar as well as him in the next twenty-four hours?”  
  
“You don’t need to. You can just intercept right before he leans in for the kiss, press a hand to his face and all that. That’ll make the crowd go nuts! Actually, that’s a good idea. Let’s do that.”  
  
“Paul, you can’t just devise a change to the show, agree with yourself, and then finalize the decision as if that will make it happen.”  
  
“And… Why not?”  
  
“You think Richard would be fine with no longer being in the limelight?”  
  
“Ah, _shit!_ You’re right. Never mind, then.”  
  
Till smiles with amusement at the other man, eyes fond. Paul giggles, crow’s feet wrinkling, and then leans in to peck Till on the smiling lips once more. Till returns it happily, as brief as it had been.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
